


Warm

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 14:02:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8211143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Glorfindel and Elrond chat. Lindir frets.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Another phone ficlet from the mall.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

“But if there is only room for one, how do you choose?” he asks, though it isn’t yet truly the case—Elrond’s given him full control of the guard, and if he wished to take both brothers in his hunting party, he could. He simply doesn’t _need_ to, and they’re growing too old to coddle.

“Elladan was first born,” Elrond suggests. His voice is as calm and collected as ever, but there’s a slight hint of weariness that perhaps no one but Glorfindel would catch—they’ve known one another through many years. “Take him now, and promise Elrohir the next ride.”

“Elrohir will be displeased,” Glorfindel sighs. But it’s a fair solution. Elrond still opens his mouth, perhaps to offer more advice.

But a sudden voice calls, “My lord!” and the two of them halt abruptly. Halfway down the garden path, they turn to eye the buildings of Imladris. Glorfindel isn’t particularly surprised to see Elrond’s young assistant running towards them. Few others speak Elrond’s title with such reverence and yet attend him with such franticness. Glorfindel and Elrond quietly await his approach.

He’s breathless when he reaches them. Doubtless, he’s found some infinitesimal cog in Elrond’s life that he considers of terrible importance. He clutches a long strip of woven fabric in his hands, and they almost tremble as he says, “My lord, I am so sorry, but you left while I was still occupied with Erestor’s trade lists, and I could not provide you with the proper coverings.”

Elrond merely lifts an eyebrow. Glorfindel bites the inside of his mouth to keep from interrupting the comical scene. Clearly, Lindir misunderstands just how personal an assistant he is—Glorfindel very much doubts Elrond included dressing him in the job description.

Nonetheless, Lindir bows his head, cheeks flushed from both the run and his overt care, and asks, “May I?”

If it were Glorfindel, especially in front of those he commands, he would refuse such an embarrassing display. But Elrond indulgently sighs, “Very well.”

Lindir instantly snaps to life. He tosses the long scarf over Elrond’s shoulders to draw around his neck. Lindir loops it twice and fidgets with those rings, drawing them first tighter, then looser, before tucking one end in like a knot. If it weren’t for his occasional friendship with mortal Men, Glorfindel would never even have heard of such a garment. He has to wonder where Lindir, who has never left Imladris nor pursued friendship with any race but elves, learned of such a thing.

Even after the scarf is tied, Lindir tugs lightly at, adjusting for maximum coverage. Glorfindel’s both sorry for and impressed with his old friend—Elrond bears the needless fussing with serene stoicism. When Lindir’s slender fingers finally recede from his lord’s clothes, his delicate cheeks stain all the darker. He ducks his head and murmurs, “Please do not remain outdoors for too long, my lord. It is cold this time of year.”

A warrior of Elrond’s stature can easily withstand a little chilly air. But Elrond handles the over-protection admirably and answers, “Thank you for your concern, Lindir. I will bear that in mind.”

Lindir fails to stifle a small smile, his eyes still averted. There’s a moment of gentle quiet filled only with the distant strum of a lone minstrel. Then Lindir seems to catch himself and starts, “Oh, forgive me, my lord Elrond, Lord Glorfindel; I did not mean to interrupt.” With a final bow, he turns as quick as he came, headed back towards the atrium behind them. His slender shoulders do bear the slightest shake, which could be from cold, or could simply be from proximity to his beloved lord.

Elrond releases a withered breath. Glorfindel politely doesn’t stare at the foreign contraption now draped around his shoulders, though he’s likely the only elf outside to wear one. At first, Glorfindel does his best to ignore the entire event.

But then a mirthful grin overtakes his lips, and he can’t help chuckling, “It seems the twins aren’t the only silly young things we have to contend with.”

Elrond returns a knowing smile, and they continue their walk.


End file.
